


Leashed

by Hello_Spikey



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Master/Pet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 06:05:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17740370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hello_Spikey/pseuds/Hello_Spikey
Summary: Spike does too good a job showing Illyria a good time and now the god is getting serious about this "pet" business.





	Leashed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Glassdarkly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glassdarkly/gifts).



> This is for shapinglight who requested some Spike/Illyria, and is a continuation of my last Spike/Illyria, but you don't need to read that to read this. :)

Spike was justifiably proud of how he’d shocked and pleased Illyria with his sexual prowess. Sure, it had resulted in two exhausting days that had left every part of him tender, but it was worth it to know he had rocked a god’s world. How many blokes could say that?  
  
He supposed Leery would come begging – in her not-begging-at-all-but-ordering way – for a repeat performance or twelve, but other than that, he assumed things would go back to normal. He was wrong.  
  
After a good few days rest and recovery – and he wasn’t sure he wasn’t still walking a bit peculiarly – he sauntered into Angel’s evil law firm of doom to see what he’d missed. And, tangentially, brag.  
  
Hardly had he walked in, however, with a cheery wave and a jab about the enormity of Angel’s overhanging brow, when Illyria marched up, all shoulders-back and ramrod-spine, and ripped his shirt off.  
  
There was a moment of shocked silence, plenty of time for Illyria to flick his ruined black tee across the room. It fluttered to the ground like a dead bat.  
  
“Ow!” Spike said, because the fabric hadn’t left without a fight, and glared in affront at the god-king. “Mind explaining what my shirt did to offend your goddessness?”  
  
“I have found I am fond of the sight of pectoral muscles. Do not cover them again.”  
  
Gunn instinctively covered his chest with both arms. Angel flinched a bit, but lowered his hand to his desk. “Illyria, please don’t disrobe my staff.”  
  
Illyria tipped her head to the side in her bird-like way. “Spike is my pet,” she said, as though that explained everything.  
  
“Riiight,” Angel said, slowly, “how about not disrobing Spike?”  
  
“You have no authority over my dealings with my own property.” She gave Angel an appraising look. “You express concern which I assume is for yourself. Be assured: your inferior physique does not interest me.”  
  
And with that, she gave Spike an appreciative glance and left the room with as much ceremony (being none) as she had entered.  
  
Gunn tried to cover his laugh with a cough. “Well. That was… well.”  
  
“Just the awesome power of my hot, tight body.” Spike rubbed his hands over his own chest.  
  
“Seriously?” Gunn said. “Do we have to see that?”  
  
“He’s right, Spike,” Angel said, “cover up or get out.”  
  
Spike rolled his eyes. “Like I can help it the smurfette’s taken a fancy to me.” He lazily sauntered over to pick up his discarded shirt. “Anyway, keep your panties on, I’ll sort it out with her.”  
  
***  
  
When Angel next saw Spike, the blonde vampire was shirtless and more than a little bruised.   
  
Angel had to swallow a mouthful of saliva, actually, because Spike always did look so pretty with a little bruising around his eyes.  
  
“Oh, pick your tongue off the floor, granddad,” Spike muttered. He dropped into Angel’s guest chair, deep in sulk. “The blue bint’s ruined all my shirts.”  
  
Angel’s brain started working again in time for him to quip, “Both of them?”  
  
Spike raised two fingers as his response. He leaned back, throat stretched and exposed as he rested his head on the low chair-back and covered his eyes with his hand. “I give, all right? YOU try talking some sense into her. She thinks you’re some kind of boss around here, anyway.”  
  
“I am the boss around here,” Angel muttered. “That’s what ‘CEO’ means.”  
  
Spike lifted his hand. “I’m being serious here, Angel. Get the god-king off of me.”  
  
Angel frowned. “What did you DO?”  
  
Spike scowled. “Why do I have to have done something?”  
  
Angel raised his eyebrows.  
  
Spike sighed. “I shagged her, all right?”  
  
Angel’s eyebrows rose a fraction more, and his mouth opened a bit.  
  
“Don’t look so shocked, Peaches. Anyway, she started it. She said I couldn’t possibly live up to my own bragging or something – don’t remember it too clearly, I was somewhat drunk. Point of it was, she said I couldn’t blow her mind, so I did. King of the god shaggers, that’s me.” Spike grinned toothily, tongue poking out.  
  
It was Angel’s turn to cover his eyes. “And you didn’t think that might be going over your head? Wait, no… forget I asked, you don’t think.”  
  
“Oh get over yourself. Like you wouldn’t have done it.”  
  
“I wouldn’t have!” Angel said. “But all right, I’ll talk to her.”  
  
***  
  
Spike was enjoying the quiet of Angel’s abandoned office, and the last of the bottle of whisky he’d had in his desk drawer, when the door slammed open to reveal a rather pissed-off looking Illyria.  
  
“Oh,” Spike said, and that was all he could do before he was dangling from Illyria’s raised arm, her hand gripping his throat just tight enough to be frightening.  
  
Spike swallowed, hard. “Remind me not to trust Angel’s winning ways with women.”  
  
“Angel questions my ownership. You have been allowed to roam too free.”  
  
“Look, now, Leery, love…”  
  
And with that he was tossed over a diminutive (but hard) shoulder and carried from the room. “Bloody! Oi! Watch the door frame!”  
  
Spike managed to get her to drop him twice, but he was not in much shape to fight by the time she deposited him on the floor of a high-end jewelers. “I wish a collar for my pet,” she informed the well-groomed, well-bred, well-startled sales staff.  
  
The one she caught first advised her to try Bulgari’s.  
  
Spike groaned as he was unceremoniously picked up and carried down the street. When she dropped him in the Bulgari showroom, he managed to crawl to a plush velvet chair and pull himself up into it.  
  
This time, when Illyria made her simple demand, “I wish a collar for my pet,” the well-coiffed matron of the shop merely gestured to a table and said, “One of our designers will help you find the perfect piece.”  
  
Spike caught a six-figure price tag on a pair of cufflinks the display case next to him. “You know, love,” he said, “they do expect you to pay for thing here.”  
  
Illyria ignored him and flipped through a catalog as sternly as a general going over battle plans.  
  
“Well,” said Spike, “this’ll be fun.”  
  
***  
  
Actually, it hadn’t been fun, once the good part of Illyria tossing the sales people into their own cases and kicking the guns from the guards’ hands had passed. Largely because some of those stray bullets had hit Spike, and he had had just about enough getting hurt for one day.  
  
At least it had been a pretty piece of glitz, what he’d seen of it before Illyria clasped it around his neck – a thick choker studded with sparkling blue gems, no doubt costing as much as a Buick and intended for a socialite’s dinner party. Well, if you were going to go for the slave look, why not go designer? Though he worried it was a bit poufy, being sparkly and all. Still, he didn’t think he should risk the wrath of Leery by taking it off, just yet. Besides, she’d zapped it with some mojo which he suspected would shock him or blow his head off, maybe.  
  
He wished Fred were there, to investigate it for him. That thought made him a little sick, because of course, it was Fred’s body he’d had so much exhausting fun with.  
  
And it was Fred’s body now, over him, tinged with blue, a soft foot pressing firm to his chest. “It has been a most vexing day. You will please me or be punished.”  
  
“Yeah, I think I’ll choose ‘cake’,” Spike muttered.  
  
Illyria tilted her head. “I do not offer you a confection. I do not offer you anything. You are my pet and will obey.”  
  
“Just a bit of British humor,” Spike said, and, carefully, ran his hand up the back of her calf. “Now let’s get you sorted and let Spike keep all his internal organs on the inside, yeah?”  
  
That seemed to please her, she let up the pressure of her foot. “I do not wish your organs on the outside. Your shape is more pleasing with them on the inside.”  
  
“Thank Christ,” he said, and held onto her legs, helping to leverage himself up between them.  
  
It was sad that it felt like a victory, being able to get onto his knees again. Illyria’s hand rested on his head, a benediction, and her eyes closed. The only hint he had of her emotion was the delicate, muted scent of her arousal, and the sweet liquid that he lapped from her clit.  
  
***  
  
Spike hadn’t been around for a while. Long enough that Angel stopped feeling relieved and started to worry, and then feel annoyed, because why did he have to worry about everyone? How could Spike manage to annoy him when he wasn’t even there?  
  
Still, plans had to move ahead, and it wasn’t like Angel couldn’t take Spike’s part of the slaying. That was the fun stuff, in the first place. So Angel was, for once, NOT thinking about (worrying about) Spike when he called a general staff meeting and Illyria deigned to attend.  
  
And Spike walked in behind her, looking, well, exquisite. He was wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung black leather pants and a shining sapphire collar that was an exact match for the color of his eyes when he was crying. His hair had gone a little long and unruly, which just emphasized the hard lines of his face. Spike’s jaw was clenched, his eyes sparkling, daring anyone to make a comment, and Angel knew, if he could blush, his face would be crimson.  
  
Illyria chose a chair and sat in it like it was a throne. She snapped her fingers and Spike, after a horrified expression and a moment’s pause, hurried to stand behind her.  
  
Gunn found the papers in front of him fascinating.  
  
Wesley somehow managed to look heartbroken and cruelly uncaring all at once. “So you’ve taken up a new hobby, Illyria?”  
  
“My pet provides a small compensation for all I have lost. When this land is mine, I shall require twenty more like him.”  
  
“Yes,” Welsey said, “Well, moving on to today’s agenda?”  
  
Wesley was really starting to scare Angel a bit. Angel looked around the room, at the corrupted remains of his crew. Scary Wesley, willfully oblivious Gunn, Lorne smiling into his fiftieth cocktail of the day. What had happened to all of them? Angel drew a slow breath. “This has gone too far. We need to start drawing lines we don’t cross. Spike?”  
  
Spike looked up, shocked to have been addressed and a little nervous.  
  
Angel almost growled. “Do you WANT to be Illyria’s pet?”  
  
“Uh, well, the truth is…”  
  
“My pet is mine,” Illyria said. “His opinion on the matter is unimportant.”  
  
“Actually, Illyria, it is. We’re a society that values individual consent, and Spike is a valuable member of my team.”  
  
“Ha,” Spike said. “You didn’t even notice I was gone.”  
  
“Of course I did,” Angel said, “it was quiet.”  
  
Illyria gazed steadily at Angel. “I will not adjust to your customs. You will adjust your customs to me. However, if power is to be gained for my allies, I will grant you the use of my pet when it pleases me.”  
  
Angel’s brain took an involuntary skip at the word “use” and his cock pressed eagerly against the confines of his trousers. He tried to will it to calm down. “Uh… that is… kind of you, I guess.”  
  
“Can we please move on?” Wesley said.  
  
Spike felt more than a little disturbed at how easily the meeting shifted to other matters, his presence and status taken as a non-issue. When Angel started talking about ridiculous plans that made no sense, and he sensibly voiced his objections, Illyria merely said, “Be silent, Pet.”  
  
And he had to bite his tongue. The last time he’d disobeyed that, it hadn’t been fun.  
  
Maybe Angel’s big, self-destructive plans would actually win the day. They did have a god-king on their side. And maybe Illyria would forget about him in the battle.  
  
Maybe cigarettes would grow wings and fly into his pockets.  
  
When the battle did come, he did his part, and when a monster five times his size had seized hold of his throat and Spike thought his end was there at last, Illyria had cut the beast in half and hauled him over her shoulder.  
  
He woke the next day in a dark cellar, draped in chains. Not a good memory for him. He panicked a bit. Light flooded in as Illyria opened a door. “You wake,” she said. She stood over him. “The battle fares badly. You are not to be damaged. You will stay here.”  
  
He smelled blood and something hot, soft, and heavy hit his thigh. It was the arm of a muscular man, still alive, but just barely. Spike felt ravenous hunger, but willed it down. “Leery… wait, you can’t…”  
  
The light, and Illyria, went away.  
  
Spike didn’t know how long he held out, but he heard the man dying. He was bleeding to death already. Spike helped him over the edge, and felt guilty for it, damn it.  
  
He didn’t know how Gunn, Wes and Angel fared. He didn’t know if the battle was still going. He did know that he wasn’t able to break the chains. It didn’t stop him from trying.  
  
The body next to him was rotting. The smell became a greater torment than hunger or the long-familiar wounds of the battle. When the door opened again, he didn’t care who it was, he called out for help.  
  
It was Illyria. She was shining, somehow bluer. A smile on her face. “I am victorious,” she said. “A palace is reserved for me. Meager but it will do. It is in the land of Beverly Hills.” She reached over Spike’s head and the chains tumbled down around him.  
  
Weakly, he tried to escape when the moment was there, but all he did was shuffle into her arms. She lifted him like a baby. “Come, Pet,” she said. “You will have sustenance and be bathed for my use. I have already a score of servants to tend to your care.”  
  
She carried him from the basement into a ruined city street. The sky overhead was hellish, red clouds and purple roiling together. “What happened?”  
  
“We are transported to a more reasonable realm,” Illyria said.  
  
Hell, it turned out, was what Illyria called “reasonable”, and perhaps it was, because she had instilled herself as a power in it, with a vacated Rococo mansion as her seat. It even had a throne room of sorts, though in front of the marble throne and dais there was a swimming pool and bar. Illyria didn’t seem to mind. She even let Spike float about in the cool water, gazing up at the red sky through the cracked glass ceiling, while she held court.  
  
He was pampered, bathed, dressed in silks and groomed to within an inch of his life. And he was waiting for Illyria to face a rival strong enough that her hand on the leash would slip.


End file.
